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Beach (Travelling with Bukowski)

You make a formidable companion,
dirty old man:

how often have I run my sweaty palms
along the ribcage of your words,
how often have I licked you, sucked,
devoured you?

I eat you, but my setting is not right:
it is heart-wrenchingly serene
where it should be filthy,
a big-city-dump dystopia –
or was this in my Ginsberg? –
however, no sunflowers, just a sun,
a beach, a hankering
da-dee-da and a bottle of rum

which I gulp down not as eagerly as you do
as the light melts on the shore
and the sand-grain ovens chill:

I am somehow stuck, knee-deep,
in no particular yesterday
and no significant tomorrow,
but I got booze, salt in my lungs,
and a frantic urge to fuck –
not to make love, to FUCK --

and damn man,
that’s poetry too.


Author notes

Option 2

A contest entry

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Comments

1 - 6 of 6
  • angelmadrid
    February 17
    Edit | Reply
    I wonder if Bukowski Beach would be more (alliteratively) apt?

  • angelmadrid
    February 17

    Edit | Reply

    Whoa!

    Quite a number there. Especially since I share your Bukowski influence. Can't agree more. But check out the site and see what the members/moderators think. My ten cents later.

  • tara wilson gold member
    February 10
    Edit | Reply
    i love it. raw & clear.


  • Dalaney gold member
    December 1, 2008
    Edit | Reply
    I think you did an amazing piece -
    my only suggestion would be to attach
    the fourth stanza to the third - it loses
    it's flow when you suddenly drop into
    another stanza beginning with the word,
    'which'. Other than that small critique, I
    certainly loved reading this poem.
    Love, Lane


  • Mairi bheag gold member
    November 30, 2008

    Edit | Reply
    It's amazing the attention that Bukowski still commands, his disciples and devotees outwriting him! He would curse and grumble, but be secretly pleased.


  • jazzcat gold member
    November 30, 2008

    Edit | Reply
    There are points of this that really scream of Bukowski -- especially the last 2 stanzas. It's all solid and well written, a fine tribute to the man. I love the lines:

    'how often have I run my sweaty palms
    along the ribcage of your words,
    how often have I licked you, sucked,
    devoured you?

    I eat you, but my setting is not right:
    it is heart-wrenchingly serene
    where it should be filthy,
    a big-city-dump dystopia –'

    That's great imagery. The Ginsberg line that follows kind of threw me a bit, but on the second reading it wasn't as bad.

    Good luck in the contest.

1 - 6 of 6